Bill ConryStill elevated from our Pyrenees climb, Kellen and I enjoyed a swift downhill into Spain ready to take on yet another country. To my astonishment, the country did not appear the way I had envisioned it based on my prior knowledge and one past trip to Barcelona. I thought somehow we had teleported to Arizona based upon the flat, arid geography and general openness of the region. The copious amounts of space in between towns gave us little option but to plan our meals based on our arrival in said towns.

Anyone out there? Oh, Kellen is.

Our first night in Spain we pedaled into a tiny village and asked a man on the street where we could find a restaurant. When the directions became complex and he grew sick of answering our questions he decided to have his eight year old son lead us there by bike. Although Megan the child magnet was not present, in an instant five additional neighborhood kids appeared ready to ride with us to the establishment. For ten minutes I was in 2nd grade again, riding bikes with a bunch of youngsters as the sun went down. Unfortunately, our destination turned out to be closed upon our arrival, so once we parted ways with our tour guides Kellen and I followed the noise to a nearby bar/restaurant to inquire about dining there.

I wasn't even riding my fastest

The language baton had been passed to me for Spain, and this was my first real skills test. I studied Spanish throughout high school and in my first semester at Michigan, however outside of ordering at Chipotle I had not spoken the language in eight years, so I anticipated my communicative abilities would be a bit lacking. And lacking they were – it took twelve townspeople and a combination of broken Spanish, French, and English for Kellen and I to explain that we would like to eat dinner there if possible. Part of the confusion was based on the timing of our conversation – 6:30 PM, which suddenly occurred to me is several hours before the traditional dinner time in Spain. With a combination of charm and what I could only imagine was the humor in the owner encountering the worst Spanish accent in his lifetime, we were able to have the kitchen open a bit early to fix us some tasty ham and cheese sandwiches before finding a nearby campsite for the night.

After a couple days in the hot, desert-like conditions we arrived in our first major city of the Iberian Peninsula, Zaragoza, where for the first time since Istanbul we were staying with locals. My Chicago friend Joe lived in Zaragoza for a few years growing up due to his father’s job in the automotive industry, and he was gracious enough to put me in touch with his friend Marcos, who was willing to take the risk in putting up some dirty American cyclists for a few days. The newlyweds Marcos and Patri welcomed us with open arms to their city by preparing a phenomenal meal of tortilla de patata, filling us in on the history and culture of the city, and even assisting me with my improving yet far from fluent Spanish.

Plaza de Pilar

Props to chef Marcos for a delicious traditional Spanish meal

Embracing the Spanish schedule the following day, Kellen and I went to a late lunch at a restaurant owned by Joe’s friend Eli and her family, which had come highly recommended. Eli’s uncle Oscar served us plate after plate of his personal tapas selections – lomo, fois gras, salmon tartar, prosciutto stuffed artichokes – it was all phenomenal. When Eli arrived at the restaurant we chatted for hours over regional wine and Hierbas liqueur about the skyrocketing popularity of gin and tonics in Spain across the past for years, how only tourists drink Sangria, and Oscar’s affinity with Michael Jordan. Once we finished our coffees and walked towards the tram I realized it was already 8pm and commented to Kellen that hands down this is the latest I’ve ever left lunch in my life.

Oscar keeps an MJ poster on hand in his restaurant

Dinner time by American standards...time to finish lunch.

We lucked out with our timing because we happened to be there on the eve of Pilar, a holiday honoring the female patron saint of Spain. Pilar is the biggest day of the year in Zaragoza and the whole town shuts down for the parades, music, and flower tossing in the main square. Although it was a Tuesday night, nobody had work on Wednesday and therefore it was a popular night to hit the town. When we arrived back at the apartment Marcos told us we were going to make a batch of sangria and head to his neighbor Marta’s apartment for dinner and drinks before going out to a nearby carnival. Kellen and I cracked up because we engaged in a similar sangria conversation with Marcos the previous night and we assumed the sangria was being prepared to entertain us American tourists. He insisted that that was not the case, sangria was a great call given the context of the night. Either way the sweet, fruity red wine he prepared was delicious and authentic.

The crew and our touristy drinks before heading out for the Pilar carnival

We're such locals it kills us

Keeping up with Spanish time we went out well after my Chicago bedtime to a nearby carnival where we met up with thousands of other young people at the music tents. Despite missing Bob Sinclair’s performance earlier in the evening, Love Generation was out in full force for a fun night!

As multiple people predicted, our Spanish schedule delayed our departure the next day as we headed towards Madrid after receiving some helpful route guidance from Marcos. The Arizona-type conditions continued as we pedaled southwest and the land grew even more desolate than what we experienced at the start of the country. It was imperative to strategically plan out our mealtimes and water acquisitions given that we were only passing through a handful of towns a day. One day we were starving around 2pm and decided to see what lunch options were available in the small village of Embid. Throughout both Eastern and Western Europe, Kellen and I have encountered countless “ghost towns” as we call them – small cities that appear abandoned: no people, no cars, and no open stores, almost like an eerie film set. On the surface, Embid had ghost town written all over it, but our stomachs urged us to check it out anyway.

Real city or film set?

We rolled up to a bar where we came across three gentlemen drinking Estrellas. I asked about food and they informed me that not only did they not have a kitchen, but there were no restaurants or grocery stores in the little town of 26 denizens and that we needed to travel 8km down the road to the next town. As we walked towards the exit with our heads down and stomachs growling, one of the patrons said “queires una cerveza?” My Spanish might not be perfect, but no matter the language I know when somebody is offering me a beer. We joined our new friend Manuel for a round as we discussed our trip, the hot weather, and how dinner time in France is insanely early. English is not an option in these small towns, so the exchange was exclusively in Spanish and my listening comprehension is not 100% accurate, so Manuel might have a different account of the chat but that’s at least what I think we were talking about.

Great chat Manuel!

Eight kilometers down the road in the next village we encountered a very similar scenario and were informed by an elderly couple that we needed to travel another 15km to find food. All in all we had to cover 60km from the town at which we ate breakfast to where we ate lunch. Can you imagine having to travel that far to find food of any sort? This really put things in perspective coming from a guy who was devastated to learn that there are no Outback Steakhouses within the city limits of Chicago.

With the drop of a hat the terrain transitioned from open and barren to mountainous and green. We welcomed the new scenery and the close encounters with wildlife that came with it. We braved some of the steepest grades we have seen all trip as we continued towards Madrid. One morning I woke up shivering to frost on my panniers and checked my thermometer to discover it was 38 degrees. Kellen and I bundled up as much as we could but threw in the towel and warmed up with coffee and toast in a nearby lodge after a few kilometers – the wind chill was that bad. Throughout the day I peeled down my layers and by the time the clock struck 4pm I was as dripping in sweat under the hot sun. The thermometer this time read 82 degrees –a 44 degree temperature swing in one day!

Dangerously steep

I had an ace up my sleeve to combat the extreme temperatures and challenging terrain: custom made trail mix. Unsatisfied with the packaged trail mix offerings in grocery stores, I decided to hand craft my own using a proprietary blend of nuts, dried fruit, chocolate, and the kicker: gummy bears. The novel concept was met by skepticism from Kellen, however he came around after just one handful of my creation.

Does trail mix count as a performance enhancing drug? Made climbs a breeze.

Fueled by our trail mix energy we arrived in Madrid after some marathon days and 60km on a major highway excited to tour the capital city. Joe put me in touch with his friend Paula who was kind enough to allow us to crash at her apartment in the center of town for the night. Paula and her boyfriend Carlos gave Marcos and Patri a run for their money for the “best host” award by guiding us on a lovely and efficient walking tour of the city upon our arrival. We toured Plaza Mayor and Palacio Real and even passed through thousands of protestors marching in Puerta del Sol before heading over to her friend Bea’s apartment for a wine tasting birthday party.

Great tour guides

Protests are not just in America these days

The wine was delectable, the cheese was delicious, but what made the night was the jamon iberico. The cured pork product native to Spain instantly shot to the top of my new favorite foods list (which has seen constant movement throughout this trip) as I indulged in the thin slices throughout the night. Bea went all out and purchased a full leg, which she deftly carved with a sharp knife. Enamored by everything related to jamon iberico, Bea graciously offered to teach me how to cut it. Carving a piece of meat of this nature is more of an art than anything, and it certainly takes practice, but after a few misshaped slices I found my rhythm and churned out some of impeccable slivers.

Look at that slicing prowess

We could have hung around Madrid for days eating ham, but sadly after just one night in the city it was time to move on as we had more ghost towns to scour and more favorite foods to uncover as we continued our push across the Iberian Penninsula.

BEARD WATCH

Welcome to the jungle. The scruff has become scruffier and even more fiery since the last update. It just occured to me that the red beard makes perfect sense. My younger brother Mikey, who has similar head hair to me, has exclusively grown big reds across his beard career. Beard geneticists maintain that the beard genes come from your younger brother, so that explains everything! Is it possible to alter the gene pool? We'll see...